


Like A Superhero (with disordered superpowers)

by soncnica



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bullying, Depression, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Memories, Mild Language, Narcolepsy, Older Jared, Possible medical inaccuracies, Suicide Attempt, Younger Jensen, boys as brothers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-13 16:47:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2157978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soncnica/pseuds/soncnica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Falling asleep is his superpower. Not very aaaaamazing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like A Superhero (with disordered superpowers)

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I seriously only own the grammar/spelling mistakes. Everything else is NOT MINE! ALL IS FICTION.
> 
> A/N: I didn't really specify in this story WHEN it's happening, as in which time period, so … it's open to interpretation. And if you think I should tag anything else, please let me know!

 

"Suck my big fat one." he mutters under his breath, while on his knees picking up the scattered things that only five minutes ago, had been safely stored in his backpack.

But now, after 'running' in with Billy, Joel and George, are laying all over the sidewalk; notebooks, pencils, books, papers, fucking everything scattered on the gray pavement in danger of being blown away by the wind. He looks up to see the assholes walk down the sidewalk, away from him, bumping shoulders and laughing. He wants to do that too – not bullying others, but have friends who'd walk down the street with him and … just hang out. Go get a milkshake and a burger down at Pete's and talk about girls and stuff. He'd even pay.

But no.

Because this is his life. This is his fucked up life; being bullied, being beaten up - he gingerly touches his right side, owie, bruised for sure - being knocked down to the ground and spat words at. Words that hurt more than the hands punching him.

Words always hurt more.

Geek. Nerd. Idiot. Retard. Moron. And the one that hurts most of all - _your brain's so fucked up not even your own parents wanted you._

Yeah, that one ... that one when it's shouted at him - followed by a slimy chunk of spit on his chest, ruining the shirt of the day - always cuts and slices and dices his heart into pieces.

He tried to toughen up for that one, he had, he honestly had, and he swallowed the insult down like water, but minutes, sometimes hours later - mostly in the dead of the night - it came rushing back at him.

_Your parents left you, because your brain is fu-ucked u-up!_

Yeah, his parents had left him. Yeah, he's adopted. Yeah, his brain is a fucking asshole that's wired totally wrong and shit, but he can't help it.

He wants to fix it somehow, but he can't.

Yeah, his life is fuckin' aaaaaamazing.

But he's lucky though; he'd been adopted by two people who love him unconditionally - he knows that, because his mom tells him that a lot, possibly more than is healthy - and who raised him telling him that he is and can be whatever he wants to be. He loves them, they love him.

The only thing that makes his life miserable, is his brain. His own body. How not aaaaaaaamazing is that, huh!?

Fucking a-ball.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid..."

He knows he's hitting his head, can feel his hands work, can feel his knuckles hitting skin, but he can't stop it. He can't stop it, until there are other hands wrapping themselves around his wrists and pulling.

"Hey, hey, stop it."

His brother. Of course. His brother in everything but blood, even if they'd swapped blood when he'd been six. It had been his brother's idea, said 'hey, let's do something' and that something had been climbing up to the tree house and cutting their fingers with the sharpest knife they could find in the kitchen. The knife's blade shone orange in the setting sun, like it had been on fire and Jensen looked at it with eyes big as saucers. His hands trembled when his brother handed it over and he whispered 'momma said I shouldn't touch sharp things' but his brother just smiled, took his tiny hand and cut his small finger himself. It hadn't hurt – nothing his brother ever did hurt - and when they pressed their bleeding fingers together, slick blood on slick blood, mesmerized by the red liquid mixing and dripping down their palms, Jensen knew. Now they were blood brothers. Then he fell forward on his brother's chest and slept for twenty minutes while the blood dried.

"You feel any different?" his brother asked when he'd woken up and he answered: "I've always been different."

And now, now his brother is right there, crouched before him, holding his wrists with the gentlest grip he could manage while still meaning it.

His brother's twenty-four. College taught him to be a teacher. Math. Ugh. Math of all things. Numbers and shapes and even fucking letters and all that combined just makes him wanna puke.

But his brother always had been a math genius. A. Genius.

It figures. His brother's all that, while he is ... while he's brain damaged and a failure in everything but drawing. He loves to draw.

"Jensen, you hearin' me? Hey!"

He really, really lucked out when he'd been adopted by the Padaleckies. He really did and he says his thank you's every Sunday at mass. The whole hour all he has on repeat in his brain, his fucked up brain, is thank you for this family, thank you for this family, thank you for this family. And if he's lucky, he gets through the whole Sunday mass without any incidents. If he's not lucky, then his brother always has a shoulder he can use to drool on.

"Jensen, buddy, you're scaring me here."

No, he doesn't want his brother to be scared, but he also doesn't want his brother having to take care of him anymore. It's not his brother's job, it shouldn't be his brother's job anymore to keep him safe and protected and away from sharp object and sharp corners. And bullies. It's not his brother's job anymore to pour antiseptic over his scraped knees and palms or hiss over all the bruises on his body and swear to kick some asses.

"Get out, get out!"

He hadn't meant to shout that so loud, so viciously, with so much anger that it broke his brother's grip on him and send the guy through the open door of his bedroom to knock his back on the opposite wall.  
The door to his bedroom has to always be open, or at least partially open, which really hinders his jerk off time, but it's for his own safety. But then again, he really doesn't want anyone to find him asleep with his hand still on his dick. Awkward. But not as awkward as his dad giving him the sex talk, while his brother could've been heard snickering on top of the staircase. But later, much later that day, his brother had given him some Playboy's and said 'here, have fun'.  
His brother's a jerk, but he still hadn't meant to push him like that ... it just happened. He's sixteen, he's angry half the time, horny the other half. He ...

"Jensen, all right, okay. But stop hitting yourself, all right? And calm down."

Jared. His brother's name's Jared. Always has been, always will be. Just like his name is Jensen. Always has been, always will be.

"'m sorry."

He's shaking now: "'m so sorry, 'm sorry," standing with his fingers drawn up into a fist and the back of his knees touching the side of his bed.

"I know you are. It's fine, but calm down."

It's not fine and he can't calm down. When has it ever been fine to push your brother away like that? Maybe even hurt him?

"Did I hurt you?"

Jared snorts: "Your scrawny hands couldn't hurt a fly, superhero."

He should be pissed at that. Should be fuming and calling Jared every nasty name under the sun. Should be insulted beyond belief.

But all he does is smile and falls to the floor. His bedroom has a thick carpet all over, softens the impact. His dad's idea, bless his soul.

He never knows when he'd do that. Just ... go to sleep like that. And it's sometimes darkness he dreams of. Sometimes he actually dreams things. And sometimes he doesn't even know that he had fallen asleep like that.

His brain. So fucked up.

It had been hilarious. At some point, really. How he'd fall asleep just anywhere. At any time. Just puffffff and he'd fall asleep. Once he fell asleep at Saturday lunch, his face falling into mashed potatoes and gravy. Of course Jared - or so it had been told to him later - pulled him out of his lunch before he'd been able to inhale anything, cleaned him up and carried him into bed.

It had always been Jared. The brother he never would've had if his real parents had kept him. And for that alone, he doesn't resent his real mom and dad for abandoning him. He doesn't. Because he got Jared in return. He got Jared and he got amazing parents and a life he perhaps never would have if his real parents had kept him.

It's okay.

It's narcolepsy he has. Fancy name actually for something that describes him falling asleep out of the blue. Stupid illness. Or disease. Or what the fuck ever. Oh no, it's a disorder.

A _disorder_.

Yeah, because nothing in his brain is in order so of course, naturally, it's a _dis_ order he has.

It's just stupid, really. It's not fun or awesome or the likes. Sure some teenagers would probably kill to be able to sleep and sleep and have an excuse to be lazy and drowsy and shit, but he ... no. He'd kill to be awake and aware and do things.

Half the time - well the time in between being either angry at the world or horny as the whole population of the world combined - he just wants to not be scared of doing things. Not be depressed. Not be falling asleep in the middle of doing the most mundane things; like eating, or washing the dishes, or taking out the garbage, or dressing himself. Or taking a shower, because that's never awkward at all.

He's scared to go out with friends. Well he would be scared to go out with friends, if he had any. He has no friends. None. At all. Because how does one make friends, when one is too scared of approaching a person because what _if I fall asleep mid step_?

He's a freak. That insult doesn't hurt him.

Then he's scared to go out. Period. Just out. To a cinema. To McDonalds. To the goddamn grocery store. Even to Church. Even to the dentist, he always has to have his mom or dad, but mostly Jared accompany him. School is beyond a horror show and he's sick and tired of being pushed into locker rooms or falling asleep in the middle of class.

So many things he can't do or have, simply because he's scared. Or other people are. He's not blind, he's not that, he has two eyes - two very green eyes - and he sees how people look at him. He sees it and he feels their stares on his skin like an oil spill.

They're scared that he'll fall to the ground any second, split his skull apart and die. They're scared because they know they wouldn't help him. He knows they know they wouldn't stop and help him. Because things don't work that way.

A man down, and no one would pick him up.

Maybe they think he's contagious. That they'll catch his 'sleeping' disease. Oops, disorder. He doesn't have the will to tell them that no, what he has isn't contagious. Isn't airborne or touchborne or fucking whatever.

It's in his brain, it's all.

Sometimes, he wants to yell at people that yes, he's contagious. That oh my God, you got the disease now too, because you looked at me for three seconds too long. You can run, but you can't hide.

Fuckers. Uneducated small town idiots. They could at least open up a book and ask the lady.

Sometimes rolling his eyes at the sheer stupidity of others, makes him fall asleep. So he doesn't do that often. Anymore.

He can't drive. He's sixteen and he can't drive. He probably could though, but he doesn't. He's too freaked out to even get his license started. What if he'd fall asleep behind the wheel? What if ... what if ... what if ... and all those 'what if's' make him fall asleep too. And deepen his depression.

His life is one huge 'what if'. One huge question mark and failed attempts at doing something. Anything.

He wants to go hiking. He really does. Go to the mountains surrounding the town. Wants to sit down on a rock and draw what he sees and be awake for hours and hours and just draw.

But what if he falls asleep there and a bear finds him? What if ...

"Hey man, whatcha doooooin'?"

His brother can be an annoying jackass also. But Jared's forgiven in advance for that.

"Drawing."

"I can see that."

"So, why didja ask?"

He can't see the shrug Jared gives him, but he knows it's there. Jared's predictable. Except when he's not.

"So, listen," the sheets of his bed rustle when Jared sits down, "I've been thinking ..."

"Hope you didn't pull anything."

"Ha-ha ... no, look, it's nice and hot outside, sunny and all, so ..."

"For fucks sake just spit it out."

He gets up from the chair at his desk, throws the charcoal against the wall and cringes when it leaves a black smudge on the pristine white paint. But damn it, Jared sometimes ... after so many years, just ... needs to learn to just not walk on eggshells around him. Jared knows he hates that, Jared knows to be honest and straight with him, to talk to him like he's a person who won't shatter when words would hit his brain.

"Okay, listen, would you like to go out? Like ... I don't know, we can go for a walk. In the park. Or further."

"Further?"

"Maybe go on a hike. I know you wanna do that, so why don't we go?"

He raises his eyebrows, because huh?

"On a hike? Today? Now?"

"Yeah. We can make some sandwiches, pack it all up and go."

To a normal person, someone who doesn't live a life surrounded with 'what if's', the request would sound aaaaaaamazing and would be grabbed in an instant.

But to him, the words bring up a bitter taste in his mouth and anger flash before his eyes. He takes a few deep breaths, because he can't get too worked up, too angry, too upset because his brain might decide it's time to take a nap, so he breathes.

"Jensen?"

Jared's so honest. Sitting there on the edge of the bed, looking up at him with those eyes and he can't ... he's sixteen. He should be able to go everywhere without a chaperone. He should be able to go on a stupid hike on his own. He should be able to drive himself up to the viewpoint and not be scared that he'd fall asleep and drive off the edge.

He should be able to live without the 'what if's'.

"Bud?"

Jared's twenty-four and should have a life of his own. He has a girlfriend, has a job, has his own apartment. Probably will be a daddy soon which would make him an uncle and ... Jared shouldn't be here still taking care of his little brother.

"Jensen?"

There's real worry now in Jared's voice and he's starting to get up from the bed now and he knows that Jared's gonna touch him, probably his arm and no. He can't be touched right now. He'll crack. He'll fall apart. He'll start to cry and he doesn't do that anymore. He'd stopped crying years ago over this shit. He won't start now. And especially not in front of Jared.

"I, uh, yeah." he croaks which makes Jared fall back to bed and his face split with a grin.

"Awesome. I'll go raid the fridge and you pack what you want to bring with, all right? Half an hour, in the kitchen?"

"Yeah, okay."

Then he's left alone. In his room, with a half-finished picture on his desk, the smudge on the wall and an empty pit in his stomach that he wants to fill with spending time with his brother.

His brain decides to give him that time. For a while.

"What the fuck is that?"

"It's. A. Tent."

Jared drawls out as if Jensen's two years old and needs to be explained what a potty is. So undignified.

"I. Can. See. That."

Two can play that game.

"Thought. We. Could. Camp."

He almost smiles, because he fuckin' loves the guy.

"No. Way. In. Hell."

No way in fucking hell is he going to camp up there in the mountains. No way. Among the insects and the bugs and other unidentified creepy crawlies and what if ... what if ...

He's halfway back inside the kitchen, when fingers grip his bicep and hold him still, his right foot midair.

He looks back and wishes he hadn't, because of course Jared knows.

"Jensen, come on."

Of course Jared knows about his 'what if's'. Of course Jared knows of his fears and what keeps him up at night and what makes him twitch and bitch and be like a recluse zombie. Of course Jared knows - a lot of the things Jensen had told him himself, and others, Jared just figured on his own.

They don't talk about it. Since it happened. Not a word. It's like a secret brother thing, Jensen guesses. What happens between brothers stays between brothers. It's in the contract, Jensen thinks, the one they both signed when Jensen had just been a baby and Jared held him for the first time. And then they sealed it when they shared their blood in the tree house.

So yeah, they don't talk about _that_ dawn when Jensen woke up screaming and screaming and screaming, drenched in sweat and crying so badly he couldn't even breathe. They don't talk about what it took for Jared to calm him down enough to get him breathing somewhat normal again. They don't talk about the words that spilled out of Jensen's mouth like vomit; every damn thing Jensen had on his mind for years and years getting soaked up by Jared's shirt. They don't talk how Jared shoed their parents out of Jensen's room, because ... because some things are never meant to be shared with people who signed a different kind of contract.

"I've packed cards. We can brush up on your poker skills."

"Are we gonna stay long?" he whispers. He wants to know, because the 'what if's' won't allow him to escape down to the valley alone.

"We'll go when you'll say we go, how's that?"

"If I say we don't camp at all?"

"Jensen ..."

The disappointment is clear in that sigh. And seeing Jared be disappointed by something or someone, is like kicking a puppy when it's already kicked enough.

"Okay, fine."

"Great."

Then he's let go and he could swear that he felt Jared's fingers around his bicep the whole trek up the mountain. Like a brand. Like a promise that he'd always be caught if he'd fall.

There are no warnings, not really, for when exactly he's gonna lose control over being awake and fall asleep. He's sleepy all the time anyways, drowsy and tired. He tried to explain it once, to a teacher of all things, said that he's like people who had been awake for more than two days.

His brother understood that just fine, while the teacher scoffed and told him to get off his lazy ass.

Meds help, sure, but not with everything.

The other, other thing about the hike and why he wanted to do it, had been to prove to himself that he actually could.

His muscles feel weak, his feet are dragging, he feels as if he's lazy, but he knows he isn't, because he really wants to walk. Hike. Be outside and follow his brother's legs up the incline. He wants that. It's just that his brain doesn't allow it.

"How you doing back there?"

"'m doin'."

"You need a nap?"

He's sixteen and the question is and always will be absurd. But the answer sometimes will be a simple yes. Naps help, strange as it sounds. But they do and after, he's okay for a few hours. He can even move his feet as if he's a normally functional human being.

He nods, because saying 'yes' would be embarrassing and yeah.

"Okay, look, we'll set up camp in five minutes, I've been here before, know where we are and all, okay? Can you walk for five more minutes?"

"Yeah."

He probably can't, but … his body has a mind of his own and if his body will be able to endure for five more minutes of walking then it will, and if not, then it simply won't.

He walks past Jared who stopped and took up walking behind him. He doesn't have the strength to yell at his brother for doing that, for silently telling him 'come on, walk ahead of me so that if you go down I'll catch you'. It's stupid, it's embarrassing and makes him feel like a baby. He doesn't want to be coddled, doesn't want to be treated like he's sick.

He is sick, yes, but he doesn't have to be reminded of that. Not here, not in this wild and beautiful forest. Not here of all places.

But … Jared isn't like other people. He doesn't look down at him, doesn't belittle him, doesn't call him names, doesn't look at him as if he is contagious, doesn't tell him what he can and can't do, what he's capable of doing and what he's not.

Jared's a good teacher, no wonder all the kids love him. Hate math, yeah, but love their teacher. It makes Jensen proud.

His arms are hanging all the way down to his feet and he's so tired, when Jared finally grips his shoulders, pulls him upright and to his side and puts a stop to their hiking.

"This is the spot."

He's pliant like an over-cooked spaghetti and Jared has no problem getting him to lay down: "You can take a nap on a sleeping bag, and I'll set up the tent."

"'kay."

He's out like a light, as soon as his head hits the slightly moldy smelly sleeping bag.

Naps are great, when they're not forced. When he decides to take them and not his brain. And after he'll wake up, he'll do some drawing.

The spot where they set camp is perfect for making drawings. Of all kinda things. Trees, boulders, fern, birds, flowers, there's even a creek nearby, he can hear it, but he's too tired to go search for it. Maybe tomorrow. Or later.

"You hungry, superhero?"

"Huh?"

"Said if you're hungry."

"Yeah, could eat."

His fingers are dirty. Charcoal, and a normal pencil. He drew with them both and tomorrow he'll try it with color pencils. Maybe.

"Want chicken in your sandwich or beef?"

"Who made what?"

"Uhh, I think mom made beef, so dad made chicken."

"Yeah, I'll go with beef."

"Chicken."

"Yeah, well I don't want food poisoning, ya know how dad is with chicken."

"I supervised."

"Yeah, still no. Gimme beef."

It tastes divine, which of course, because it'd been his mom that made it and mom's the chef in the best restaurant in town, so duh. Their dad's just a lawyer, so what does he know about preparing chicken. Except for burning it to a crisp or not cooking it long enough.

They eat in silence, or as silent as it can be in the woods. Which is pretty non-silent actually, especially when the twilight came and brought out the owls. Then the party really got started. Owls and frogs and some strange bird that sounded as if was dying every time it opened its beak.

The stars are nice though. Close. Very close.

"Just ask, okay?"

"Ask what?"

"You're staring at me."

"Okay, are you all right?"

"'m fine."

"All right."

He wonders what Jared would do if he'd say that he isn't all right. That he's scared as hell, that he's tired, that he can't remember what he did three hours ago, that he's lost muscle control over twenty times today already, that he's maybe falling into depression again, that he's sleepy and that he doesn't want to sleep anymore. That he wants to be normal. To not be in a constant state of drowsiness, to be able to do things while not being terrified of falling asleep the second he'd start having fun.

But somehow, he knows that Jared knows.

"Jensen?"

He looks at his brother then, across the small fire they set up to chase away the cold of the evening. And to do some s'mores, of course.

He shrugs: "Ya know," he shrugs again, and whispers: "the usual."

He doesn't want to talk. After … after _that_ dawn when he literally choked on every single fear inside of him, he's so done with talking. There's nothing more to say, especially not to Jared. To his parents, maybe yeah sure, but to Jared. Nothing. Nada. Absolutely nothing.

He'd been thirteen then, Jared twenty-one and his brother hid him inside his arms as if he'd been nothing but a small teddy bear.

And yeah, nothing had changed since then.

"You know you can talk to me, right?"

"Yeah," he throws a tiny stick into the fire and watches it burn into nothingness right away, "I know. Still don't mean I have stuff to say."

"Well, if and when you will."

"Sure."

His words are getting slurred, he's able to taste them leave his mouth slower.

"Je-?"

The nap kept him going for a few hours, but a nap could only do so much and he's in dream land before he can hear Jared say his full name.

Nights are horrible. They are horror and terror and something like insomnia, but not. They are … fucked up. At night there's nothing to do but lay in bed and listen and hear and come up with shit that you wouldn't normally come up with during the day. Because daylight chased away bad, bad things that only came up in the cloak of the dark.

He's in the tent. It smells of plastic and sour feet and it's filled with his brother's light snores. It isn't even snoring really, it's just a little too loud breathing. But it's calming in a way not many things are. His heart is beating, wild animal in a cage, it's actually hurting his sternum. A sharp pain, something he feels and tries to rub off with his hand. The rubbing doesn't help, his heart keeps on being wild and the pain's still there.

He turns his head towards his brother and doesn't even startle to see his eyes open. The dark isn't fully dark; the moon and the stars illuminating everything with a muted silver light and his brother's eyes are strangely white.

"Hey, you all right?"

He doesn't know why Jared's whispering; 's not as if there are people around. He doesn't understand why anyone whispers at night at all, but people do that all the time. Strange.

"'s my heart." He whispers back, because apparently whispering is what is supposed to be done in the dark.

He listens as Jared shifts in his sleeping bag until he's lying on his side, his head supported by his right hand. He doesn't flinch when Jared puts his left hand on his chest, right over the wild heart.

"You're soaking wet."

"I know."

He can feel it; he _is_ soaking wet, his t-shirt and boxers drenched and sticking to his skin as if he'd been standing in pouring rain.

"Come on, get changed."

Jared's already dragging their backpack up to their heads, before Jensen even notices his brother's hand disappearing from his chest.

"Here, a new tee and boxers."

The items hit his head, because he has no reflexes. Gym class is absolute torture for him.

He shivers when he pulls off his T-shirt, cool air hitting his wet skin, making it pebble.

"Gimme."

He gives the shirt to Jared who puts it in the backpack and then does the same with the boxers.

"Feeling better?"

"Yeah."

He does. Sort of. At least he's dry now. But his sleeping bag is wet and his heart isn't slowing down any.

"Good."

They both lay down with a sigh and while Jared falls asleep almost immediately, he stares up at the tent's ceiling and tries to will his heart to just take a rest already.

But like his brain, his heart never listens.

The worst thing – for him anyway – the absolute worst thing, is when he wakes up and his dreams follow him.

Hallucinations, is what it's called. Paralyses. Unable to move while seeing all kinda shit around himself.

He knows it's not real, not all of it, not the dark figures or the creepy sounds, but it is scary as hell. It's downright terrifying. He always sees dark shapes, figures, shadows lurking right there, so close to getting him.

When he'd been younger, before he hit two digits, he often passed out from the sheer fear. Later, he screamed and shouted for someone to come to him. Much later, he just stared at the hallucinations and smirked internally, because he couldn't really move a muscle.

Now, being here, in this unfamiliar territory, that is neither his home nor his room, but a tent in the middle of the wilderness, the figure in the corner of the tent, right by his feet is making him wanna scream all over again. But he can't, not yet, because his muscles are locked in place and he can't do anything, but once he'll snap out of this, he knows, he just knows that he'll scream.

Because what if the figure isn't a hallucination, but there really is someone in the tent?

What if it's real? And solid? And is going to kill them both?

He can't hear his brother anywhere, can't turn his head to check if Jared's still there with him in the tent, can only watch the dark figure standing there and looking at him.

And then Jared snorts – probably in his sleep - and the figure disappears like smoke.

He screams.

It hadn't been real. But it could've been. How would he know? How?

"Jensen, Jensen, Jensen!"

He can't stop screaming and he knows the shock's gonna send him into sleep soon, but it's so, so, so good to bury his entire face into his brother's chest and feel Jared breathe.

"Shhh, shhh, shh…"

It's so good to feel his brother's hands hold his head, fingers messaging his scalp, pressing him deeper and deeper into the warmth of Jared's arms.

He falls asleep like that. Doesn't care what happens next or what doesn't happen next.

His brain said sleep and sleep he does.

Waking up is always dumb, because what is the point in waking up, when he's still gonna be sleepy when he does and still need a nap soon and still fall asleep soon again. What is the point?

"What was it?"

"A figure."

"Okay."

He loves his brother. He knows not many can say that, he does have school mates, not friends really, but they are there and they talk and he isn't deaf so he hears and he can honestly say that almost ninety-seven percent of them, don't get along with their siblings. Which is wrong, he thinks. Because brother and sisters are your natural born best friends.

At least Jared is. He's his best – only – friend and a brother. The age difference is eight years, yeah sure, but that's okay. Even if he's teased about that too.

"What you want for breakfast?"

"Chocolate cake."

Jared's chuckle says that he's gonna get bread and jam for breakfast. Which is fine by him, as long as the jam is apricot.

The morning is crisp, but it will get warmer when the sun will reach eleven am or thereabouts, but for now long sleeves aren't too much to wear.

"Gonna draw some more today or do you wanna go home?"

The question is distorted by a mouthful of bread and jam, but Jensen understands it just fine. But wishes he hadn't. It's a question he doesn't really have an answer to.

He sinks sideways and falls asleep.

"So, wanna stay here superhero or go back home?"

The words are vibrations all along his back and he can see that he's lying his back to Jared's chest, by how his brother's legs are bracketing his. Must've fallen asleep then. Great, because he just looooooves to fall asleep in the middle of a conversation.  
  
He hates waking up like this; groggy, feeling as if the world shifted for a degree or two under his feet while he was in dream land and with a time loss of minutes. Minutes that he'll never get back. But life goes on, don't it?

He sighs and moves a bit forward to allow Jared to slip from behind him.

He'd love to stay and draw, go find that creek and draw that. And he's having a good time with his brother – they always have a good time – he likes spending time with him, he loves it here, with the fresh air and the calmness of the trees.

But at the same time, home is safe. Home is stability and home is where he knows that black figures aren't really there, while here … well … who knows? And Jared has his girlfriend who he probably should get back to, and the school year is going to start soon and maybe he has to do some prepping and things.

But … call him selfish, but he doesn't want to share his brother with anything yet.

"Can we stay some more?"

"No problem, squirt."

"'m not a kid anymore."

Jared shrugs: "Eh."

"Shut up."

"Finish your breakfast, then draw."

"What're you gonna do?"

"Read."

"Boring."

"Shut up."

They're both such nerds, but he cleans his hands of bread crumbs, pulls paper and pencils out of his bag and sets them on his legs.

Draw.

He can do that. And Jared will read.

They don't have to do anything, really. Just being together, even in silence, is enough. It has always been enough.

"Lunch?"

The word startles him and he makes a squiggly line where there should be no line at all and looks up into his brother's eyes with anger in his. Now he'll have to erase that line somehow and ugh, fuck.

"Sorry."

"'s okay, 's just a drawing."

"Uh, yeah, so lunch?"

"What do we have?"

"Soup, crackers. Or do you want another sandwich?"

"Soup."

"Okay."

The soup smells artificial, which yeah it is, while boiling lightly over the gas burner. But it's gonna fill up their stomachs and maybe for dinner they'll have some meat. Something to put on their bones, because everyone knows that soup just goes straight to the belly.

"So, do you wanna stay one more night or wanna go back home?"

He swallows the hot liquid with some noodles swimming in it way too fast, making himself cough and cuss at how his tongue burns.

"Already said I wanna stay."

"Okay, just checking."

After lunch, they move a few feet further up the woods, to sit on a big rock and he finds new kinds of trees to draw. New kind of tranquility.

He only falls asleep twice. Once he falls on Jared's shoulder and the other time he just slumps down a tree trunk.

It's okay though. It only takes fifteen or so minutes before he's up and at it again.

Like he said, nights are worse.

Sometimes it's hard to hold the pencil, hard to hold the paper, but he grits his teeth and does it. He wants to do it, needs to do it, prove to himself that he has some kinda control over his goddamn body and brain. Even if he doesn't, but still … he can try.

He just wishes his muscles would obey him and not feel so noddle-like. There are times when the meds work, times when they don't, and times like two days before _that_ dawn.

He hides that scar under the band of his wristwatch. It's a small scar, really it is, but it's done right, going up and not across. He meant it, but his fucking disorder saved his life.

How. Fucking. Ironic.

He remembers his mom scream. Possibly cry, he doesn't remember that, but screaming and crying just kinda go hand in hand with his mom. Then he remembers his brother holding something black to his wrist, hard pressure stowing the blood. He remembers his brother muttering all kinds of words, but all he'd seen had been a mouth moving.

He remembers the smell of iron, the wetness of his jeans, remembers how his eyes'd been blurry and how sharp and beautiful the knife'd been. The same one he and Jared sealed the contract with.

He'd cut his wrist, the doctors had said, cut it like he meant it and then they put him on suicide watch. Adjusted his meds – whatever – and tried to make him talk, but all he said had been: "I can't kill myself, now can I? The pain just makes my brain go nap time."

That hadn't gone very well with the doctors, but they released him anyways. They released him with changed meds and an appointment for a shrink, not knowing that dawn'd been approaching that'd make him spill everything they tried to get out of him while he'd been on that suicide watch from hell.

The dawn had been blue and orange; he'd been able to see it from the corner of his eyes while he sat up on bed crying out for someone to help him.

"Hey, 's it your heart again?"

The sleeping bag rustles when Jared moves closer to him.

"No."

"You lying to me?"

"No."

Of course he is and they both know it, so why the stupid questions, really, but when warm fingers find their way under his wristwatch and press down on the scar – raised now, a white line, a reminder to everyone – his heart picks up even more speed and the pain in his sternum intensifies and runs all the way down to his stomach.

Anxiety.

As if he isn't screwed up enough.

"I wanna go on a road trip."

He doesn't know where the words came from, what synapses lost their way now to make him whisper that, but he had and it's out there now. No way to pull it back in. He just told his biggest secret, the one he'd held so close to his heart and hidden so deep in his mind he thought that he'd lost it somewhere along the way. But no, here now in this tent in this darkness, he said it. Road trip. Two words, so easy to pronounciate, so easy to do for some folk, but to him ... they were a wish so, so hard to fulfill. All the 'what if's' that go along with those two words ...

"All right. Next summer?"

His brother's finger is still pressing on the scar and it's really uncomfortable where the band of his watch is digging into his skin, but as long as it's not cutting off his blood supply, it's okay.  
  
It's okay.

"Yeah, next summer. Wanna … I don't know … wanna see the Grand Canyon. Wanna see Yellowstone. That Old Faithful thing."  
  
Now that Jared knows the idea, knows it and is all for it, now the words can't stop bubbling from his mouth. All the places he wants to see, things he wants to experience.

"We can do that. Why don't you plan the trip this school year and the minute you finish school next year, we'll go? Take dad's car, 's bigger."

But ... Jared can't go. He has a girlfriend, he has a job, he has a life that should stop revolving around Jensen's disorder. But he's not brave enough to tell all that to Jared. He knows that keeping all that inside is just adding up to his depression and to his anxiety, but he can't dump all that on his brother. He can't.

"I'll talk to the Dean, see if I can work some stuff around my schedule, get someone to replace me for the lessons, hmmm, and then we can just go."

The Dean. Jared's not a teacher, teacher. Not in an elementary school or a high school or the local collage or anything like that. No. He's the damn professor – or something like that, he doesn't wanna ask or know for sure - in a real Ivy League University. He skipped grades as if they'd been stupidly low obstacles even an ant could jump over and got offered a job at Harvard.

Which of course he took, he'd be stupid not to. Even damn NASA asked him to marry them, but he said that no, teaching is what he wanted to do. He left that option open, though, because like he said, his brother's a genius.

Jensen often wonders, what he'll do with his own life. All he knows how to do is draw, all he can do is draw. But art? There's no money in art, unless you're dead before your time.

But next year he's gonna be seventeen, colleges are gonna be thrown at him, decisions to make, blahblahblah and all he'll do, is sleep. Take naps. Be depressed. Drop things from his hands, because his muscles decided to take some rest. Feel more 'what if's' pile up on him. He doesn't know anything about his future. And he can't live with his parents until he or they die. And he can't live with his brother, even though Jared had asked him that a gazillion times already. He doesn't want to be a burden to anyone.

But he can dream. He can dream all kinds of things up.

"Okay, and we'll eat shitty roadside food and threw up green sludge. And drive down back roads, right?"

"Yup, maybe even give you the wheel for a bit, on some straight road, what do you say?"

He'd love that. He'd love that a lot, but he knows there will never be any straight roads for him. Ever. There will only ever be curves and blind spots, approaching traffic that will rock him and make him hit the brakes.

"Next year?"

"Next year, superhero."

He doesn't fall asleep, he stays up and mourns the loss of his brother's touch on his hand. Everything's always so easy with that there.

"Hey superhero?"

He grumbles back some sounds that could be words, but mostly he just smiles. Superhero. It had just been a joke between him and Jared, ever since he'd been diagnosed with narcolepsy – a joke that had been meant to soothe and calm him down whenever he'd been gearing himself up to a full on panic attack over how fucked up his brain is. Jared would say 'hey superhero' and he'd say 'with disordered superpowers' and then they'd both chuckle. It helped to think of himself as something other than damaged, helped to think of himself as being one of them superheroes who had a superpower that messed up their lives. Sure, he couldn't fly or have x-ray vision or climb up walls, or have cool gadgets and an awesome car, but ... it still helped. He should've outgrown all that years ago, really. He should've.  
  
They're such idiots, he and Jared.

But they're idiots together and that makes it awesome.

One Halloween he even went out dressed as Superman with a big letter 'N' instead of an 'S' on his chest, but that trick-or-treating lasted only an hour and a half or so, before Jared had to carry his narcolepsy ass back home. He only managed to get two Mars bars and a fist-full of caramel candy. And no kid dared even look at him sideways, because he had his big brother at his back.

He whispers back: "With disordered superpowers," and chuckle-sobs when Jared puts his hand over his heart again and shakes him a bit.

"Dude, we'll go see the world's biggest twine ball, take a ride down Route sixty-six, hit Vegas, hmm? Go to L.A. see the Hollywood sign. Buddy, your heart's beating really fast there."

He knows. He can feel it be like a tennis ball, bouncing up and down in his chest.

"Come on, superhero, plan the trip with me. What else you wanna see, huh?"

He takes a deep, stuttering breath and keeps his eyes fixed on the tent's orange ceiling, where he can see the silver moonlight. He licks his lips and starts: "Wanna go swimming in Florida, wanna see Vegas too, Seattle, the Space Needle, I hear it rains there a lot, wanna go to San Fran, see the bridge, draw it maybe, New York, the Statue of Liberty, Manhattan, Mount Rushmore, maybe New Orleans, Mississippi river."

He falls silent then, the image of the huge river, he'd only ever seen in books and the feel of his brother's big palm rubbing over his heart putting him to sleep.

"Yeah, superhero, we'll see all that. Promise."

**The End**


End file.
